Cigarette Smoke And The Morning Sun
by Ashvarden
Summary: When Harry decided to take a late-night flight on the Quidditch pitch, he didn't think it would trigger anything earth-shattering. Luckily, he was wrong. Slash of the Harry/Marcus Flint variety.
1. Open Spaces

A/N: This is for Ariaeris, who is totally made of win. (Go read his stuff!) I promised him a Harry/Marcus fic like a bazillion years ago, and after months of writing, rewriting, and then _re_-rewriting, it's finally finished! This is the first half - or third, I'm not entirely sure yet - but I'll be posting the rest soon, after I'm finished editing.

Warnings: Slash, smoking, mentions (and, in spots, more-than-just-mentions) of sexual situations. And, for the record, this is set in Harry's third year.

Also: If there's anything that doesn't sound right, please let me know so I can fix it! I don't have a beta, so all mistakes are my own. Concrit is welcome and definitely appreciated.

* * *

**Cigarette Smoke And The Morning Sun**

**Chapter One: Open Spaces  
**

The grass was covered with frost, slippery and ice-stiff underfoot, as Harry strode across the sloping lawn that separated the castle from the Quidditch pitch.

His every breath was like smoke, clearly visible in the sharp November air. The first snow hadn't fallen yet, but it was bordering on winter, and even late fall in northern Scotland was bitterly cold. The fact that it was late at night - early morning, to be entirely accurate; two a.m. could hardly be called "evening" - made things all the worse. The wind cut through his flying gear mercilessly, leaving him shivering, muscles tight like coiled springs against the cold.

Even so, Harry needed the release, the _freedom_ that flight granted him. Nothing would dissuade him from flying until either a) the sun came up, or b) he lost all feeling in his hands. He'd brought his Quidditch gloves to help prevent the latter - presently, they were tucked away in one of his pockets - but the thin leather was hardly going to keep his fingers warm.

He slipped into the Gryffindor locker room and fetched his Firebolt, then made his way onto the pitch. The grass crunched loudly, frost-crisp, with every footfall.

He'd only gone a couple of steps before he realized he wasn't alone; a large, burly figure was spiraling through the air on the far side of the pitch, near the goal hoops. Whoever he was, he appeared to be fairly gifted in the flying department; the corkscrew motion he currently employed was a difficult one to master. Harry stood there for a moment, just watching and admiring the ease with which he moved through the sky - almost as if he belonged there, a bird in flight rather than a human on a bespelled shaft of wood.

Before long, though, the itch to do some flying of his own grew too insistent to ignore. He yanked his gloves on and straddled his broom before shooting upwards, the frigid air harsh against his face as he accelerated. He did a couple of quick laps before falling into his usual nighttime flying pattern - a few, admittedly unnecessary, repetitions of the newer moves Wood had devised for him, and then a harrowing game of chicken with the ground. Or the stands, or the goal posts; anything exceptionally large and solid, really.

It always brought a thrill - rocketing towards an immovable object at high velocity, swerving or pulling up a split-second before impact. It made him feel strong, powerful, like he was in _control_.

Of course, the adrenaline rush was pretty good, too.

They flew for what seemed like hours, separated by an entire pitch-worth of empty space but sharing the same mindset, the same motivation. Both were striving for the sense of freedom that, for a devoted Quidditch player, could only be found hundreds of feet above the ground.

They kept their distance, each sticking to their own respective halves of the pitch. They'd both been seeking calm and release, just their thoughts and their brooms and the wide open sky, and the lack of solitude wasn't about to keep them from it.

Eventually, though, even the cathartic sensation of flight wasn't incentive enough for Harry to stay in the air. His face and hands had long since grown numb, the cold bite of the wind not unlike submerging himself in ice water.

He descended slowly, steering with his thighs as he peeled his gloves off with stiff, fumbling fingers. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on them. His breath was hot against the chilled skin, but it soon dissipated, leaving only a faint reminder of its warmth. The friction of rubbing his palms together was a little more successful, but still not enough.

He was so engrossed with warming his hands that he didn't even notice the other flier's approach.

"Cold?" a gruff voice asked, and Harry jerked his head up to see someone hovering scarcely ten feet away. His first impression was rather so-so. Close-cropped black hair, jagged teeth, and a lot more bulk than he was comfortable being at odds with.

He'd been sharing the pitch with _Marcus Flint _the entire time, and the Slytherin hadn't even tried to off him and make it look like an accident? Odd.

Well, just because he hadn't done it yet didn't mean he wouldn't. There was still plenty of opportunity to kill him off; even something as simple as a tickling charm could make for a nasty fall. Harry eyed him warily. "A bit."

Flint drifted a little closer. "Hold still," he ordered, pulling out his wand and pointing it at Harry.

Harry tensed, half-expecting a jet of light to come shooting out at him. He opened his mouth to object, but suddenly glorious, all-encompassing warmth - reminiscent of sitting near a blazing fire, like he often did in Gryffindor tower on winter evenings - rushed over him.

His eyes closed as the sensation washed over him, and when he blinked them open again Flint was tucking his wand away, clearly finished with any spell-casting he'd been planning.

He'd never managed to get the protest out, but his mouth was still open, so he muttered a hasty, "Thanks."

Taking notice of Harry's expression-half bewildered and half apprehensive, as though he expected to be shoved off his broom at any moment-Flint asked, "What? You thought I was going to hex you?" There was no mistaking the amusement in his voice. "Don't worry, Potter. I don't want the Cup _that _badly."

Angling his broom upwards (after all, they'd been scarcely twenty feet above the surface of the pitch), Flint flew over to the stands and landed there, just short of the top row.

After a moment's hesitation, Harry followed him. His instincts were still screaming "Run away!" but since when had that ever stopped him? He'd done plenty of stupid, risky things before and it had always turned out all right. Why should this be any different?

He alighted on the topmost bench and settled in against the backrest, feet propped up on the seat directly in front of him. Flint turned to look up at him - he was several inches taller, but their positions evened things out - and a peculiar jolt went through Harry's body as he realized that Flint's face was only a few inches from his knees, almost level with his crotch.

Flint shot him a confused look. "Potter?"

Harry braced himself for the considerably larger Slytherin's ire and said, "Why'd you do it?"

"What?"

"Why'd you do it?" he repeated, impatience coloring his voice. "The warming charm, I mean."

Flint shrugged. "You were looking a bit pathetic," he said offhandedly, as if he were remarking on the weather.

Harry wondered if he should take offense - after all, it was true, but no one with actual _manners _would've said it so bluntly - but before he could get anything out in his own defense, Flint added, "Besides, what's wrong with a bloke doing somebody a favor?"

He didn't quite stop himself in time to hide the snort of disbelief. Flint, helping someone of his own free will?

The Slytherin shot him a narrow-eyed look, and Harry quickly averted his eyes. Much as he hated to admit it, he was a little intimidated by Flint. Then again, who wouldn't be around someone five years his senior, three times his size, and more than capable of tearing him limb from limb should he feel the sudden, burning urge to dismember the Gryffindor Quidditch team's most valuable player?

Flint, however, seemed perfectly content to lounge on the bench and make small talk with him. Him - someone Flint, by all rights, shouldn't have even been speaking to, which made it all the more surreal. Beating him up, maiming him (permanently or non-permanently, so long as there was pain and blood involved), heckling him? Those were all understandable. Having a casual, almost - dare he say it, or even think it - _friendly_ conversation with him? Not in a million years.

Deciding on the "safe" approach for once, Harry let the subject drop. "Where'd you learn that, anyway?"

"Pucey. The bloody bastard waited 'til _after _I'd nearly froze my balls off to tell me there even _was _such a thing as a warming charm." Flint scrunched his face up comically; his memories of that particular day's flight were obviously less than pleasant.

Harry couldn't hold back the smile that curved across his lips. He hesitated, smile fading a little, when Flint asked, "Why d'you care anyway, Potter? I would've thought the little know-it-all you're always hanging around with would've taught you it by now."

"Hermione's not a know-it-all," he argued, defending his friend. "She's just . . . she reads a lot." It came out a lot lamer than it had sounded in his head.

Flint snorted. "Potter, every time I go in the library - and don't you dare tell anyone I go there occasionally, or I swear to Merlin I'll hex your ears off, I've got a reputation to protect - she's in there poring over some huge, dusty old book."

Harry opened his mouth to continue the argument, but closed it again for lack of a decent retort. After all, it was tough to argue with the truth, and what Flint was saying was hardly a lie.

"That's what I thought," Flint said, a little smugly, upon seeing that Harry had run out of excuses for his friend's know-it-all-ism. He produced a slightly battered pack of cigarettes from one of his pockets and tapped one out into his hand. Placing it between his lips, he lit the tip with his wand and took a slow drag.

Harry watched in bewilderment; Flint, a pure-blood, smoking Muggle cigarettes? Where was the seemingly ever-present pure-blood disdain for anything Muggle or Muggle-born? Had the Slytherin Chaser been Confunded one too many times and lost his distaste for anything non-magical?

Sensing Harry's eyes on him, Flint held out the pack. "Fancy a smoke?" he asked, exhaling a lungful into the frigid night air.

His first instinct was to refuse, having been lectured a number of times by his primary school teachers that smoking, drinking, and drugs were Not Good. Then again, he seemed to be taking a lot of risks tonight; what was one more?

"Yeah, sure." He reached out and took one, setting it between his lips much like he'd just seen Flint do. He fumbled in his pocket for his wand, but before he could get it out, Flint leaned up and lit it for him with the end of his own cigarette.

Murmuring his thanks, Harry balanced it between his middle and pointer fingers, much like Flint seemed to be doing. After a moment of staring at the smoke trail curling up from the tip, he dredged up every last scrap of Gryffindor recklessness he possessed and took a drag, drawing the smoke down into his lungs. Almost immediately, he doubled over, coughing, as the burning sensation in his throat became too much to bear.

Flint cocked an eyebrow at him. When he spoke, his tone was deceptively mild. "Easy, Potter, or you'll hack up a lung."

Harry wanted to glare at him, but considering the identity of his present company, that might not be such a wise thing to do. He settled for narrowing his eyes and taking a second pull on his cigarette, determined not to give the older boy a reason to laugh at him by giving up after only one drag. It was a little easier this time, although the burning sensation was just as bad. He coughed, putting his hand over his mouth to muffle it.

"Y'know, I never would've figured you for a smoker," Flint said, almost conversationally, "what with you being the Gryffindor Golden Boy and all."

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, well, people aren't always what they seem." He steeled himself and took another pull, keeping his expression relaxed through sheer force of will even as he was bombarded by the urge to screw his face up in disgust. It was time to let his Slytherin half take over; his Gryffindor persona wouldn't do him any favors when it came to dealing with someone like Marcus Flint. The last thing he wanted was to show weakness, especially now that the Slytherin seemed to be warming up to him a bit.

"So, do you do this often?"

"What, corrupt innocent little Gryffies with my nicotine habit?"

Harry rolled his eyes. Flint wasn't nearly as good at faking confusion as he seemed to think he was. "That too. I mean, do you come out here a lot? Is it just to fly, or do you always finish off a flight with a nice leisurely bout of destroying your lungs and throat?"

He was a little surprised by his own boldness; then again, he seemed to be doing a lot of out-of-character things tonight. What would it hurt to have a halfway normal conversation with somebody?

. . . Even if it _was _a Slytherin.

"Any one of those in particular you'd like answered?" Flint's tone was surprisingly genial; Harry highly doubted it was sincere.

"Any of them. All of them. None, if you're not up for sharing." He used his most goading tone, knowing that Flint would see it as a challenge. If there was one thing he'd learned from watching the hulking seventh year play Quidditch - aside from the fact that he was a chronic cheater and usually resorted to violence when his team was losing - it was that Flint's pride wouldn't allow him to brush the question off.

"Yeah, I do. Come out here a lot, I mean."

"To clear your head?"

Flint shot him a sideways look. "Sometimes, yeah. Why d'you care, anyways, Potter? It's not like you've got any reason to."

He shrugged. "Maybe I'm just trying to make conversation. Maybe I'm curious. Maybe I'm wondering if I'm the only one who ever comes out here to be alone."

A slight, lopsided smile began to form at the edges of the Slytherin's mouth. Not one of the bitter, fake, mocking ones Harry was used to seeing; a real, honest-to-God _smile_. The sort of smile that slimy, conniving, black-hearted Slytherin bastards were supposed to be incapable of.

"No."

"No what?"

"No, you're not the only one." Flint pushed himself up into something vaguely resembling a sitting position, resting his elbows only a few inches from Harry's sneaker-clad feet. He took another slow drag on his cigarette before breathing the smoke out into the night air. He swiped his tongue over his lower lip afterwards; the action drew Harry's eyes involuntarily to Flint's mouth, and his mind to somewhere far less innocent that involved a number of things Flint could probably do with that mouth and those full, saliva-wet lips.

"Shut your mouth, Potter. You're drooling."

Harry started, jerked out of his mouth-induced fantasies by the sound of Flint's voice. Flushing in embarrassment, he averted his eyes. His posture was rigid, wary even, as he waited for Flint to comment further; after all, he'd just handed him enough ammunition to arm a machine gunner in the middle of heavy combat. How could he expect Flint to just let it go?

True to form, Flint didn't let it go.

When he next spoke, though, it was with a tone far different than the harsh, disgusted one he'd been anticipating. "Like what you see, do you?" He sounded almost . . . _amused_?

When several more moments had passed and Flint hadn't said anything else, Harry looked over at him in confusion. That was it? No jeering about how the precious Boy-Who-Lived was such a disappointment, no sneered remarks about how he was freakish and unnatural?

Oddly enough, none seemed forthcoming. Maybe he was just taking his time thinking them up? Putting a little extra effort into making them as cruel and vicious as possible? In that case, sticking around much longer would be a stupid thing to do.

Actually, sticking around _period _would be a stupid thing to do.

"I gotta go," he muttered, just barely loud enough for Flint to hear him. Stubbing his cigarette out against the bench, Harry lurched to his feet and grabbed his broom. He straddled it hastily and kicked off.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid . . . _he berated himself, feeling like an idiot. _You didn't even deny it!_

Flint watched him go with an inscrutable expression on his face, so focused on Harry's retreating form that he forgot about the still-burning cigarette in his hand. He remembered in a hurry when it started to burn the side of his pointer finger, though, and he dropped it with a heart-felt, "Bloody fucking-fuck!"

* * *

Harry was very talented at avoiding people.

More specifically, he was very talented at avoiding Flint. After three days of skulking through seldom-used corridors and ducking into alcoves at the sight of anyone over six feet tall (not counting the Weasley twins, who were easily distinguishable as Definitely Not Flint), he practically had it down to an art form.

It was like some twisted version of Hide And Seek. The hulking seventh year had tried to catch him alone a number of times over the last three days. Harry'd had plenty of practice escaping from larger, slower people, though - Dudley and his gang had made sure of that - and he managed to keep out of Flint's way for a whole three days, nine hours, and twenty-seven minutes before Flint finally caught him in an empty hallway near the Transfiguration classroom.

His first act was to shove Harry up against the wall, although with considerably less force than he was capable of.

His second, after trapping the younger boy in with his beefy arms, was to lean close and growl, "I've been trying to get you alone for ages. Stop avoiding me."

It took Harry, who'd been rather surprised by the suddenness of the ambush, a moment to collect himself. After all, it wasn't every day he was jumped from behind and tossed about like a rag doll. Not since coming to Hogwarts, anyway.

Forcing his wits back into some semblance of order, he threw caution to the wind and retorted, "Why should I?" He was both proud and shocked by the fact that his voice didn't shake at all.

"Because I said so." Flint sounded a little confused, as if he weren't used to his authority being challenged. He probably wasn't; when you were - arguably, although anyone trying to say otherwise would probably be looked at like they'd suddenly sprouted a second head - the biggest, meanest guy in the entire school, people tended to listen to you.

"So?" It came out a lot less aggressive than Harry would've liked, but he'd said it, and that was all that mattered.

Flint, blindsided by Harry's recklessly brave rebellion, didn't seem to know what to say. He blinked a couple of times, scowling, but then the frown lines etched into his forehead disappeared and he smirked. Quite confidently, he announced, "I know what you're trying to do, Potter. It's not going to work."

"What're you on about?"

"You want me to give up. You want me to forget about the other night."

Harry was uncomfortably aware of the way the older boy's body pressed against his own as Flint loomed over him, his face a scant few inches from the Gryffindor's. The heat radiating from Flint's body was positively furnace-like, and the hard lines of his body were firm against Harry's chest and stomach, but even that wasn't as distracting as his voice, low and dark and carrying a slight hint of a Scottish burr.

Flint's hot breath, heavy with cigarette smoke and toothpaste, ghosted over Harry's face as he murmured in a lower, but equally smug tone, "Well, it's not going to happen."

"I've got no bloody clue what you're talking about, Flint." It sounded half-hearted even to him, though, and the shark-like smile that stretched across the older boy's lips made it quite clear his lack of vehemence hadn't gone unnoticed. Fuck.

"Potter - " Flint's tone was supremely confident " - you and I both know that's a lie."

He swallowed tightly, finding it difficult to breath as Flint leaned in even more closely, their noses practically bumping. The Slytherin's hands, which up until then had been bracketing Harry's shoulders, wrapped themselves tightly around his biceps. Harry mentally kicked himself for taking his robes off after lunch; the fabric of his uniform shirt was thin enough to feel the heat from Flint's hands.

Embarrassment flooded through him as he realized that his biceps were small enough for Flint to curl his fingers around. Flint had ridiculously big hands. . . . but still, that was kind of sad.

He looked up and was surprised to find the Slytherin staring at him, eyes intense in a way Harry had never seen them before. They were grey, he realized, grey like slate. There was emotion there - "eyes are windows to the soul" had never been a more accurate description than at that very moment - but he couldn't read it. Anger, maybe? Disgust? Fear? Interest, even? It was impossible to tell for sure.

Whatever it was, Harry didn't doubt that it was much more skillfully hidden than his own emotions. He'd always been told he was an open book. People took one look at his eyes and knew exactly what he was feeling.

What was Flint seeing right now? The fear? The anxiety? The _want_?

He tried to say something - what, he wasn't quite sure - but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. That seemed to be a recurring problem lately. . . .

Flint seemed to get the hint, though, regardless of Harry's continued silence. Could Flint see it in his body language? His eyes? His expression? Whatever gave it away, it prompted Flint to take a step back, putting a little more distance between them (for which Harry was thankful, despite his body screaming in protest at the sudden lack of contact).

He reached out, seemingly on impulse, and straightened Harry's shirt collar. Then, still wearing that infuriating smirk, he said, "I'll see you around, Potter."

There was a definite swagger in his step as he walked away. Harry was left with his back against the wall, breathing shakily, his face flushed a furious Gryffindor red.

* * *

"Something wrong, mate? You've been awfully quiet tonight. . . ."

Harry glanced away from the fire - he'd been staring into the flames, watching them flicker - and smiled half-heartedly at the redhead in the overstuffed armchair across from him. "I'm fine, Ron. Just being my usual moody self."

Hermione, curled up with yet another monstrously thick book in one of the other armchairs near the fire, looked up from her reading. "Are you sure? You haven't been letting Malfoy get to you with those awful fainting impressions of his, have you? Because he's really not worth it . . ."

"No, it's not that. I'm fine, guys, really," Harry interrupted hastily. He'd prefer not to hear Hermione continue in that vein; he'd had enough reminders of his humiliating reaction to the Dementors lately without his friends starting in on the subject, too.

"Okay," Hermione said, tone uncertain. "But you'd tell us, right? If something _was _bothering you?"

Harry opened his mouth to say that of course he would and they'd be the first to know, but when he tried to, the words stuck in his throat. Damn them both for making him feel so guilty. He was lying and hiding things from his friends now, and all they'd done was try to help him.

What kind of person did that make him? And who _could _he tell if he couldn't even talk to his best friends about it?

Well. . . it wasn't like he had to tell them everything. It would be laughably easy to leave out the incriminating details. He was locked in a brief moment of indecision as the horrifying prospect of his friends guessing the whole truth warred with the intense desire to tell someone, _anyone_ really, about the crazy thoughts going on in his head. Eventually, though, desire won out.

"I . . . I, um, there's something I have to tell you guys."

Ron and Hermione both leaned forward in their chairs, wearing nearly identical expressions of conflicting concern and insatiable Gryffindor curiosity. Hermione was forced to set her library book aside to manage it - the dusty old tome was ridiculously bulky - and a small puff of dust (a century's worth, more than likely) wafted into the air when she closed it.

Harry felt the sudden, irrational urge to laugh.

He glanced around the Common Room, making sure there was no one within hearing distance. With the exceptions of maybe a half-dozen fifth and sixth years and Percy, who'd camped out in the far corner of the room with a veritable mountain of textbooks and was scribbling away furiously, head bent in concentration, they were the only ones there.

Courage bolstered slightly by the knowledge that they were, in essence, alone, Harry scooted forward in his chair and cleared his throat awkwardly. It took a couple of false starts ("The other day . . . I, you guys . . . this is going to sound so stupid, I just know it is. . ."), but eventually he managed to blurt out something vaguely understandable.

"Imaybekindoflikesomeone. Aaanndddd . . . Ithinktheymightlikemeback."

Okay, maybe not_ understandable_, per se.

Hermione blinked owlishly. "Pardon?"

Taking a steadying breath, Harry repeated himself. "I like someone - y'know, in _that _way - and I think they maybe like me back. Except I've got no bloody clue what to do about it."

"You're having a laugh at us, aren't you?" Ron asked suspiciously.

Hermione reached out and smacked Ron's knee. "Honestly, Ron! Have a little tact, won't you?"

"Ow," Ron grumbled, but said, "Sorry, mate. Won't happen again." He glanced over at Hermione, checking that his apology was satisfactory before continuing. "Have you tried talking to her?"

"Yeah, a couple times. It was a bit awkward, though. I've got no idea what to do or say or anything."

Hermione worried at her lip for a moment before asking, "Well, do you want to ask her out?"

Just the thought of asking out Marcus "I'm-A-Badass-Slytherin" Flint was laughable. Still, if it would help him pump Hermione for information (Ron, wonderful friend though he was, probably wasn't going to be much use other than for moral support) . . .

"Yeah. Yeah, I've been thinking about it."

"Right, well, don't take my word for it - I've never asked anyone out before - but I've heard that it helps to do something romantic. Sending them flowers or chocolates, writing them romantic poetry, things like that. If you're interested, there are some rather good volumes about poetry structure in the library."

Wow. Trust Hermione to work in a book recommendation. It was quite possibly the most useless advice he'd ever received, too, and that included Dudley telling him he might not want to stick his fingers down the kitchen drain, else-wise the snakes that lived in the pipes would bite them off. Thinking back on that now, he could see a rather disturbing similarity with the basilisk in the plumbing. . . .

"Thanks, Hermione. You too, Ron. I think I'll try that," he said, lying through his teeth and feeling absolutely no shame. There was no room for brutal honesty; not in this conversation. "I think I'm just gonna head up to bed now. Y'know, sleep on it." He squirmed his way out of the overstuffed armchair and forced himself not to bolt for the stairs, tossing a quick, "'Night, guys," over his shoulder.

He trudged his way up the staircase with Ron and Hermione's farewells echoing after him. Cue the inward sigh of relief; he'd been worried about the whole "it's a guy" thing coming up, but it had been almost criminally easy to keep things ambiguous. If he weren't so frustrated by their complete lack of _actual help_, he might've felt some guilt over deceiving his closest friends. He'd been hoping that Hermione, at least, would have some decent suggestions. . . .

By the time he reached the last step, he'd decided it quite firmly: there was no bloody way he was writing Marcus Flint romantic poetry.


	2. Fuel To The Fire

No, your eyes aren't deceiving you; chapter two is finally here. It took about a century (give or take a few days, lol) to fill in the missing pieces and hunt out *most* of the errors-if you find any I missed, please let me know!-but it's done and posted and now I can get to work on chapter three. :D Whew.

I don't think this chapter was as IC as the first. I tried to keep things from getting too fluffy, but I've got a feeling I didn't quite manage it, lol. XD I hope you enjoy the chapter, regardless.

By the way, this fic is rated M for a reason, folks. It contains sex, copious use of swearwords, and unflattering descriptions of Severus Snape. You've been warned. XD The scene in the dorm is NOT the First Time scene; that's coming in the next chapter (or so) and will be worthy of the M rating. :D

Last but certainly not least, a huge thanks goes out to everybody who's read/reviewed/favorited this so far! You guys are awesome.

* * *

**Chapter Two: Fuel To The Fire**

Encounter number three, despite its swiftness, lent plenty of fuel to the fire.

Harry had earned a detention with Snape - through no fault of his own, of course, that bit of diced griffin tongue leapt right out of his hand into Malfoy's hair! - and he was having a grand old time down in the dungeons, scraping a thick blue substance reminiscent of dried glue from the younger students' cauldrons.

_By hand._

. . . Well, okay, he had a chisel. Even Snape wasn't cruel enough to make him pry it out with his fingers. It was easy to understand, though, why Harry was growing a bit frustrated.

_Chip._

_Chip._

_Thunk. _The chisel skittered down the side of the cauldron, slamming his wrist against the rim.

Swearing profusely, he dropped the chisel and clutched at his stinging wrist with his opposite hand. He seriously contemplated chucking the chisel at the wall - or Snape, if the greasy git chose that moment to return from whatever probably-made-up errand he was on - as he waited for the pain to subside.

After taking a minute or so to compose himself and rein in the near-irresistible urge to break something, he snatched up the chisel and set to work again. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could escape this hellhole.

After five minutes, he'd reached the point where he was working on autopilot. _Chip. Chip. Chip. _Not a whole lot of concentration involved there.

After ten minutes, his wrist was starting to ache from the constant jarring.

Fifteen minutes into Harry's two-hours-long sojourn in Hell, Flint came strolling in, parchment and self-inking quill in hand. He, unlike Harry, didn't seem to be there for punishment. Unless you counted the very act of being in Snape's _presence_ as a punishment, that is . . . which, for some inexplicable reason, most Gryffindors did.

"Hi, Profess-" he began, trailing off abruptly when he caught sight of Harry.

After a couple quick glances to the left and the right (and then a couple more, just to be thorough), Flint verified that they were alone and said, Slytherin drawl in full force, "Fancy seeing you here, Potter." He threw in a suggestive leer as an afterthought, which, to his surprise, Harry found humorous rather than disgusting.

Luckily, Flint's assessment was correct, and Snape _didn't _come waltzing in at the exact moment Harry answered with a dry, "Yeah, I can see why you'd be surprised. Who ever heard of a _student _being in a _classroom_?"

Flint grinned, showing off his crooked, animalistic teeth. "A bit feisty today, are we, Potter?"

He swaggered over to sit on top of the desk nearest Harry, the predatory expression never leaving his face. The wood creaked beneath his considerable weight - Flint was, by no definition of the word, small - but, miraculously, it held.

After he'd gotten himself comfortably settled, he started tapping his quill against the edge of the desk. Quick, staccato snaps, and while it wasn't irritating yet, it soon would be.

"Scrubbing the second years' cauldrons, eh?"

Harry grimaced. "Yep. At this rate, I'll be done by the time I'm thirty. Your head's blocking my light, by the way."

To Harry's astonishment, Flint slouched lower without so much as a snarky comment. Torchlight, no longer hidden from view, outlined a few flyaway strands of hair as it shone past his head. He glanced around again, likely on reflex, as he asked, "D'you know where Snape wandered off to?"

Harry shrugged. "No idea. The only thing he said before he left was, 'Blow up my classroom while I'm gone, Potter, and I'll have you scrubbing cauldrons 'til June.'"

Flint barked out a laugh. Harry was shocked; he'd never heard Flint genuinely _laugh_ before. Jeer, snap, taunt, even growl, yes. But laugh? No.

"He really hates you, doesn't he?"

Harry glanced up from the cauldron he was scraping out - the third one; with any luck he'd be finished by midnight - and shot Flint an incredulous look. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Potter . . ." Flint said, looking at him pointedly. On a face like Flint's, it was a tad frightening.

"Fine, fine." Harry held his hands up in surrender. "He absolutely loathes me. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Mmhmm. What'd you do?" He sounded a little too amused for Harry's liking. "I mean, he's a right bastard and he hates most everybody, don't get me wrong, but every time he sees you it's like he's suddenly developed a bad case of heartburn."

"I didn't _do _anything. He just doesn't know when to let go of an old grudge."

Flint cocked a thick, dark eyebrow at him in question. Harry just shrugged and stabbed at the blue cauldron-gunk, paying the task more attention than was strictly necessary.

After a long, dragged-out moment of silence, Flint made an exasperated noise and asked, "Does that mean you're not gonna tell me?"

Harry glanced up at him, a quick flash of bright green iris and oft-repaired wire frames before he looked down at the cauldron again. Taking a particularly vicious jab with his chisel, he asked, "Why d'you care anyway?"

"I don't." It was a little too quick, a little too defensive, though, and Harry'd had plenty of practice with lies. He could recognize one when he heard it.

He didn't say anything, though. He just watched, a tiny smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth, as Flint hopped off the desk and beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

Their fourth encounter began with a shock. Not literally, of course.

Harry was meandering his way back to Gryffindor Tower from the Owlery, _not _causing trouble for once, when a set of hands darted out from behind a tapestry of Juletrus the Jumbled and yanked him backwards into an alcove. A beefy arm pinned him against broad, solid muscle, and a large, sweat-damp hand was cupped over his mouth and nose, discouraging any thoughts he might've had about screaming for help.

Unbeknownst to his kidnapper, it also had the unfortunate side-effect of restricting air flow. . . .

Harry panicked, distressed by the sudden lack of oxygen and the arms squashing him. He wriggled and thrashed for all he was worth, putting everything he had into it.

"Hold still, damn it!" an uncomfortably familiar voice hissed through the darkness. "I'm not gonna hurt you!" He squeezed Harry for emphasis, which didn't do much to support his claim. Twisting and squirming didn't seem to be getting Harry anywhere, though, so he complied, going limp in the older boy's too-tight grip.

"Quiet, okay?" The hand was removed, and not a second too soon. Harry dragged in a great gulp of air, slumping against Flint as sweet, sweet oxygen reached his brain. The arms around him loosened their grip, switching from pinning him in place to propping him up.

A couple more deep breaths helped Harry recover from his brief brush with asphyxiation. He yanked himself from Flint's now-slack grip and snapped, "What's your bloody problem? Are you fucking insane? What in Merlin's name was that for?" Then he recalled who exactly he was talking to and winced, already anticipating the sharp 'crack!' of knuckles against vulnerable flesh. Fists would be flying any second if Flint's near-legendary temper decided to make itself known.

Oddly enough, though, Flint didn't seem to take offense. There was an amused snort - well, it _sounded _amused - and, rather than firing off a hex (or, considering the space available, maybe a quick jab to the face was more likely) Flint just murmured, "Lumos."

When the tip of his wand flared with light, it illuminated the tiny alcove they were wedged into. It also revealed the swollen, bruised mess Flint affectionately called a face.

"Bloody hell, what happened t'you?" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself - a frequent problem when Flint was around, apparently. Where was that brain-to-mouth filter of his when he really needed it?

Despite its bluntness, however, the question was definitely justified. A huge purple-black shiner was blooming, centered by Flint's blood-shot left eye, and the rest of his face didn't seem much better off. There was some impressive swelling going on along his jawline. The skin there reminded Harry of raw meat - red, puffy, and tender-looking, liberally peppered with dark stubble. It didn't look like he'd had the nerve to attempt shaving.

"Bludger to the face," Flint said, his tone dismissive. "Shockingly enough, Hufflepuff's got some halfway competent Beaters this year."

Harry, courage bolstered by his earlier escape from the jaws of death, reached out to skim a couple of fingers over the bridge of Flint's nose. "Yeah, I'd say so," he muttered, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. "What'd you want to talk to me about, anyway?" he asked, dropping his hand to his side again.

"Huh?"

"I'm assuming you snatched me from the corridor without so much as a by-your-leave for a reason."

"Oh, right," Flint said. Harry could practically _see_ the light bulb flickering on above his head. "Wanted to talk about this thrice-damned crush you've got on me, Potter." It was blunt and straight to the point - not unusual for Flint. Sly, too - he reached out and grabbed hold of Harry's shirt collar just in time to stop him from bolting at the mention of the word "crush".

"It's getting damned ridiculous, y'know," Flint continued. "I know you like me, Potter, so you can bloody well stop trying to hide it."

Oh sweet Merlin, he was going to die. He was going to have a heart attack right then and there, and then Oliver would feel the need to murder Flint for (accidentally) offing his star Seeker, and then they'd both be stone-cold _dead_. He was going straight to hell, too, just like Aunt Petunia had claimed on numerous occasions. Flint, of course, wasn't exactly angel material, so he'd been stuck with the Slytherin for all eternity. The torment would go on, and on, and on. . . .

Harry was jerked from his spiraling fit of despair by the sudden, bruising pressure of Flint's mouth against his own.

He kissed back on instinct, opening his mouth and letting Flint's tongue work its way inside.

The taste hit him after a second, like swiping his tongue through the inside of an ashtray. That, coupled with the slick heat of Flint's tongue on his gums, was enough to bring reality crashing in. He jerked back as if he'd been burned.

"Flint?" he choked out, nearly speechless with shock. He'd only just come to terms with the fact that he fancied another bloke, and now said bloke was trying to make out with him in a dark alcove? Talk about a brain-buster.

Flint didn't say anything, nor did he dive down for a second kiss. Instead, he shifted his attention to Harry's neck, sucking and nipping at his Adam's apple with the determination of someone who'd set his sights on getting laid and was going to manage it, obstacles be damned.

Big hands settled on slender hips, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world, as Flint stepped closer and steered Harry up against the wall.

It felt _good_ - teeth scraping against skin, a nose nudging his jaw, the soft rasp of Flint's stubble. The stone at his back was rough and cool through the fabric of his shirt.

He'd never done anything like this before. Never had someone else's mouth on his throat or someone else's hands on his body. Never felt his nerve endings singing under someone else's attention, lips and teeth and tongue. It was almost _too_ good. Speaking of things that were too good, Flint was probably the equivalent of eating a whole quart of Dark Chocolate Mint in one sitting; a guilty pleasure, great at the time but something that would soon be regretted.

Panting under Flint's ministrations, Harry tried to shove those thoughts aside - out of sight, out of mind as the saying goes. Besides, comparing Flint to ice cream was all wrong. For one thing, ice cream was cold, and Flint was _hot_.

Maybe it was better to just stop thinking and act on impulse. It hadn't steered him wrong before. Well . . . it had, but it had never resulted in irreversible damage.

Better to just give in, right? He tilted his head back for better access, clenching both hands in the fabric of Flint's shirt.

Flint's hands, meanwhile, weren't quite as innocent. One had started out settled on Harry's hip, and it remained there, but the other snaked its way up underneath his shirt. He was urged forward a half-step, farther away from the wall, as fingers splayed across his back. They burned fever-hot against his skin, but it was a good heat, keeping him grounded.

It felt natural, almost, having that huge hand - wide-palmed, blunt-nailed, and Quidditch-callused - resting against the curve of his spine. It was like background music to the lips mouthing along his neck; not even close to center stage but still an integral part of the experience. Welcomed and appreciated . . . something he'd miss once it was gone.

The hand on his hip shifted, rucking his shirt up enough to press against the bare skin beneath. Fingers curled under the waistband of his slacks, and he reacted instinctively, pressing his hips forward.

His crotch rubbed against Flint's thigh, which had somehow snuck forward and nudged his legs apart while he'd been distracted by the mouth ravishing his neck. He unclenched one of his hands from Flint's shirt and curled it around behind Flint's neck, hoping for some leverage as he rocked his hips experimentally.

Flint huffed a laugh at Harry's enthusiasm, even as he slid his hand further forward, front and center, and got to work on Harry's belt buckle. The jingle of metal against metal drowned out ragged breathing for a moment, and then it fell silent as Flint unbuttoned his slacks and yanked the zipper down. A large hand palmed the bulge at the front of his boxers, in sync with Flint's rather sharp teeth biting at the juncture where neck met shoulder. Harry bucked into the contact, moaning. He raised his head and watched Flint through lust-glazed eyes, swiping his tongue over the swollen jut of his lower lip.

Spurred on by Harry's positive response, Flint stroked him a couple more times. Then again. And again. That was all it took; Harry was a typical teenage guy - well, if the whole lived-through-a-Killing-Curse thing was ignored, anyway - and he had all the control of one, too. Not much, to say the least.

For a few moments Harry was content to tilt his head back, part his lips, and revel in post-coital euphoria. Eventually, though, it occurred to him that he'd been neglecting his manners, and reciprocation would probably be a good idea. He dropped both hands to Flint's belt and fumbled the buckle open, followed by the button and zipper.

Then, finally, he shoved a hand past the waistband of Flint's boxers.

Flint was hot and heavy in his palm as he stroked. It was awkward, and the angle felt wrong, but it seemed to work just fine. Soon Flint was rocking his hips in sync with Harry's hand, thrusting into his fist.

Flint's bitten-off groans filled the air as they moved together. He ducked his head low and pressed his face against Harry's ear, his breathing fast and harsh. His movements grew more erratic with each stroke, until he finally stilled, letting out a guttural moan as he reached his climax.

"Fuck," Flint groaned against his neck a couple beats later, having just then regained the ability to speak in words that weren't 'guh', 'auhhh', or 'mmhh'. He took a moment to collect himself, blinking far more than was typical - Harry could feel the rapid flutter of lashes against his ear - and then he used the wall to shove himself upright.

"Not bad, Potter. Not bad at all." His voice was a low, satisfied rumble as he tucked himself back into his slacks and made sure everything was arranged comfortably. Digging his wand out of his pocket, he muttered a spell, and the warm wetness on Harry's stomach and thighs vanished.

Then, with the same familiar bluntness that Harry was quickly coming to appreciate, he asked, "I don't suppose you're up for a fuck, are you?"

"Not at the moment, no," Harry said, even as he felt blood rushing back to his groin at the very thought. "Don't think I'm ready yet. Not for that." Hand jobs in dark alcoves or deserted classrooms were more his speed right now. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all. Besides that, he'd only just come to terms with liking blokes. Flint was a bit - okay, a _lot_ - older than him, and he'd plainly had a lot more time to experiment with the whole two-guys-gettin'-it-on thing.

Their age gap felt enormous and echoingly vast just then.

"S'okay. Didn't think you were," Flint admitted. "Had to hear you say it, though." The disappointment in his voice was well-hidden, but still detectable. "Maybe next time, eh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe next time . . ." Harry swallowed, struggling against the tightness in his throat. "I'll see you 'round, then?" Against his better judgment, he hoped he would.

"Soon. Count on it," Flint said, shooting him a lecherous grin as he ducked out into the corridor.

And on that note, their encounter ended as swiftly as it had begun.

* * *

A week and several fumbling but enthusiastic trysts later, an enormous tawny owl greeted Harry at breakfast. Rather intimately, at that: it landed in his lap.

He just barely had time to register its presence - and the sharp talons digging into his thigh - before it winged away again, a stolen piece of toast clutched in its beak. He spared a moment to gawk after it, then came to his senses and snagged the sloppily folded bit of parchment it had left on the tabletop.

After all the excitement of its arrival, the note itself was a letdown.

It was only a line long, and the handwriting was spiky and barely legible. He couldn't help but wonder how any of the professors deciphered Flint's handwriting, or if they even bothered to. Maybe they just assigned him a random score, or did eenie meenie minie moe when they pulled out their grade books. Anything was possible considering the integrity - or lack thereof - regularly exhibited by some members of the Hogwarts staff.

**Potter  
Entrance Hall at midnight.  
Flint  
**  
"Who's it from?" Ron asked, craning his neck to get a look at the parchment.

Harry hastily re-folded the note and stuffed it in his trouser pocket alongside his wand. "Wood. He wants to set up some extra practice sessions." He was only half-lying. Oliver had cornered him in the hallway the previous afternoon to discuss just that. It was Oliver's last chance to win the Cup, and he was _way _past being fanatic about it.

Ron seemed to accept the answer. He turned around to face his waffle-heaped plate, then glanced along the table, evidently searching for something. Spying it, he pointed in the general vicinity of Harry's elbow and asked, "Mind passing me the syrup, mate?"

Harry snatched the jug away from a possibly-sorta-could-be-reaching second-year's hand and passed it across. Accepting it with a show of good manners that would've had his mum positively _beaming_, Ron focused on drowning his breakfast. He employed a single-minded intensity rarely used on anything besides Quidditch or chess - certainly not on schoolwork - and Harry, watching, decided it was safe to relax.

Mentally, he breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted . . . for the moment, anyway.

* * *

Harry kept a sharp lookout as he descended the staircase into the Entrance Hall. He felt exposed, even with his wand drawn and the comforting weight of his Invisibility Cloak over his head and shoulders. It was five to midnight, and anything and anyone could be wandering about the castle.

Harry didn't see Flint immediately, but then again, was he stupid enough to stand around where anybody passing through would notice him? He seriously doubted it. Professors and poltergeists and cantankerous caretakers were all out and about at this time of night, and after seven years at Hogwarts - particularly as a member of Slytherin House, whose students were notorious for not giving a damn about rules or curfews - Flint probably knew that all too well.

Near the foot of the staircase, he swept the cloak off. He draped it over his arm, ready to be thrown on again at a moment's notice, as he cleared the last step.

He leaned against the banister and scanned the deserted Entrance Hall. Flint didn't seem to be around - he would've said something, done something to get Harry's attention, if he was - but it couldn't hurt to check. Maybe Flint hadn't noticed his approach. He _had _been invisible, after all.

When a quick once-over revealed no signs of Flint, he straightened up - no, not in _that _sense of the word_ - _and walked over to the double doors that led outside. They creaked loud enough to wake a basilisk-Petrified second year as he inched them open, and he winced, glancing around in case the noise attracted any unwanted attention.

A quick left-to-right glance out there yielded no better results, and when he returned to his place near the foot of the stairs, his expression was one of impatience.

It was going on 12:15 by the time Harry heard footsteps echoing over marble floor. He snatched the Cloak off his arm and threw it over his head, crouching down to hide the tips of his shoes. He edged backwards until he was pressed flush against the banister, just in case it was one of the teachers out on patrol. He'd feel like a right idiot if Snape came stalking up from the dungeons - probably hell-bent on catching miscreant Gryffindors out and about past curfew - and walked straight into him because he was too stupid to move when he had the chance. On marble flooring, taking a step would be tantamount to whipping the Cloak off and tap-dancing on the steps, singing, "Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty Hogwarts," at the top of his lungs. Maybe the rest of the school song, too, if he happened to bring his foot down too hard.

It wasn't Snape that exited the corridor leading down to the dungeons, though, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief as Flint came to a halt at the foot of the stairs.

"Finally," he said, shoving himself upright and stepping away from the banister. "I was about ready to give up."

Flint jerked around, quick as a startled deer, to look at him. Or rather, the empty air beside him. He was at least a foot off in his estimate, but it was a pretty good guess considering Harry's current state of invisibility. "Potter? Is that you?"

Belatedly, Harry yanked the Cloak off. "Yep, it's me. Sorry 'bout that. Didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't scared," Flint shot back. After all, what self-respecting Slytherin would ever admit to being frightened? Flint glanced at the shimmery cloth he was holding and cut Harry off before he could reply. "Invisibility Cloak, eh? Where in Salazar's name did you get one of those?"

He folded the Cloak up and tucked it away in his pocket; no point in keeping it out, not with Flint here and no professors in sight. "It was my dad's."

"Family heirloom, then. Most of the old Pureblood families have that sort of thing lying around. Not Invisibility Cloaks, obviously - those things are bloody rare - but you get the idea." Apparently deciding he'd been informative enough for the time being, Flint drew his wand and said a quick, "Lumos." Light illuminated their corner of the room, casting odd shadows on the steps and walls.

To distract himself from the creepy atmosphere, Harry focused all his attention on Flint. His face, he noted, was healing up nicely. The bruising was nearly gone; only a few small patches of mottled yellow remained where it'd been the worst, and even those were half-faded.

"What's this about giving up, now?" Flint asked, directing the light towards him and throwing his face into shadow again.

Harry squinted under the sudden onslaught. "You're late. A _lot _late. I was ready to leave."

"Good thing you didn't, then," Flint said. He leaned in to catch Harry's mouth for a long, lazy kiss, and when he pulled away, he was smirking. Harry wondered briefly if that was his default expression. . . .

"Come with me." He started walking away; judging from the swiftness of his stride, he obviously expected Harry to follow.

He hesitated. Flint was heading for the dungeons - not somewhere a Gryffindor (or anyone for that matter) ought to be during school hours, let alone after dark. Flint paused at the threshold and cocked an eyebrow, having noticed that Harry was still standing, statue-like, at the foot of the staircase. "Or you could sit around up here by yourself, I guess. Don't see why you'd wanna, but it's an option."

With that, he turned and strode off.

Harry, after a split-second of further indecision, followed him.

He hastened to catch up, having to jog a bit to compensate for Flint's considerably longer stride. Flint flashed him a quick, predatory grin as Harry fell into step beside him.

"Where exactly are we going, now?" he asked as they started down a short set of stone stairs, entering the dungeons proper.

"You'll see." Reading the anxiety still present in Harry's expression - or maybe, Slytherin that he was, he could smell Harry's fear in the air? - Flint added, "Don't worry, kid. You'll like it." The confidence in his tone didn't do much to assuage Harry's concern, and 'kid' only served to make him bristle.

He kept his mouth shut, though, and did his best to keep up as they ventured deeper and deeper under the school, guided only by the dim light from Flint's wand. Although Hogwarts - or anywhere, really - had a tendency to look different in the dark, he recognized the route as a familiar one. Two lefts and a right turn ahead, Snape's domain stood deserted. Unless the greasy bat was back from his nighttime rounds and grading papers (on a vicious curve) in his office, of course, or doing whatever else cranky, bitter Potions masters did late at night in the privacy of their living quarters.

They took a right instead of a left at the first intersection, though, and Harry had to wrack his brains to think of somewhere else they might be going. Surely Flint wouldn't bring him all the way down here for a quickie in an abandoned classroom? Cliche though it was, the Astronomy Tower would make a far better choice for that. . . .

Right. Left. Left. Right again. Another left. Left.

It wasn't until they reached a surprisingly familiar stretch of bare, damp wall, and Flint stopped to face it, that Harry recalled another possible location. He hadn't been there for nearly a year now, but this particular section of stone was just about where he remembered the Slytherin common room's entrance being. The convoluted route should've tipped him off; while disguised as Crabbe and Goyle, he and Ron'd had a devil of a time finding their way. They'd had to be rescued by _Malfoy_, of all people.

His revelation was confirmed when Flint said, "Might wanna put your Cloak on, Potter, unless you'd rather explain your presence to any Slythies still up and about."

He waited while Harry fumbled his Cloak out and vanished from view, then directed a quick, soft-spoken, "_Heritage_," at the wall. The password must've been correct, because a hidden door in the wall slid back to reveal the long, low-ceilinged room beyond.

Flint crossed the threshold, momentarily silhouetted by the eerie green glow cast from lamps within, and Harry rushed after, lest he be locked out in the corridor. Even in a castle where staircases moved and suits of armor walked the halls, doors opening of their own accord weren't too common. He'd rather not arouse suspicion if he could help it.

Just as well; as the door slid shut behind him, he noticed several Slytherins - fifth or six years, from the looks of them - ranged around the fire, talking in low voices and passing sheets of parchment back and forth. Who in their right mind, he couldn't help but wonder, would stay up past midnight doing _homework_? Besides Percy, that is, and his mental state was debatable - particularly around exam time - so he didn't count.

He couldn't help but marvel at their studious nature as he pursued Flint across the room, keeping quiet as best he could. It was like having the mute button on on the telly - he was sure they could hear his light footsteps, his adrenaline-heavy breathing, the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart as it threatened to beat its way through his chest.

No one stood from their chair or shouted an indignant, "Oi, you there!" though, and he followed Flint down a short flight of steps to the boy's dorms without incident. When he reached the bottom and peered down the short torch-lit corridor, he found Flint waiting in front of the third door on the right.

When Flint remained there, apparently unaware of his arrival, he stuck a hand out from under the Cloak and wiggled his fingers. It served to both garner a snort and spur Flint into action.

The Slytherin held a finger to his lips to indicate silence, then shouldered the door open and slipped inside. Harry crept through after him and tapped Flint's arm to let him know it was safe to close the door. He could hear snores issuing from the nearest bed, and mumbling - nonsensical and badly slurred - from somewhere off to the right. It was hard to make out where, exactly, in the dark.

He was led over to one of the enormous green-curtained four-posters; the one nearest the bathroom, as it turned out. Flint reached in and dug clothes out of the rumpled sheets, relocating them to the floor using a method Harry liked to call the "Seamus Hurl" - toss them with the same care a particularly blood-thirsty cat would show a mouse, and wherever they land is their resting place for days, even weeks, on end.

Flint hopped onto the bed and, after shoving the bedding back to make more space, waved him over. He drew the curtains after he'd felt the mattress dip under Harry's weight, then drew his wand again and directed it at the curtains. He murmured a few quick spells. Their surroundings flared briefly with first gold light, and then white, before settling back into darkness.

"All right," Flint said, no longer whispering. "You can take the Cloak off. We're all set; I tossed a couple privacy and silencing spells up."

Harry tugged the Cloak off and laid it aside, then reached a hand up to smooth his ruffled hair. It did no good; his attempt at convincing the strands to lie flat was half-hearted at best.

"Don't bother, Potter." Flint grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his head. "It's just gonna get messed up again anyway." He tangled a hand in Harry's hair, as if for emphasis, and tugged him in to smash their mouths together.

* * *

Forty minutes later found Harry patting down the blankets in search of his clothes. Flint, still tangled in the sheets, watched him drowsily. The dark posed no obstacle, his eyes having long-since adjusted to the lack of light.

The sensation of soft, many-times-washed cotton beneath his fingers contrasted sharply with Flint's silken sheets - which, judging by the feel, were composed of some fine, expensive material befitting a rich Pureblood - and he identified it with ease. Definitely his shirt.

He tugged it on. The scratchy, stiff-edged presence of a tag against his throat told him he had it backwards (and possibly inside-out, as well), but honestly, did it matter? With any luck, Flint was the only person who'd see him like this.

He found a sock on his next foray through the bedding, rolled half-way back on itself and still sweat-damp from being on his foot. He yanked it on, regardless, and returned to the search.

His fingertips grazed denim on the third pass, and he curled searching fingers around it, dragging it closer. He laid them - because yeah, they were definitely jeans, and therefore plural - by his knee and swept his hand through the sheets again, hunting for his boxers. When four separate tries yielded no results, he admitted defeat. It was no big deal, going commando - just up to the dorm, and then he'd be taking all his clothes off anyway.

He shifted onto his hips and stuck both feet through the leg-openings, then dragged the fabric over his calves, past his knees, up his thighs. They felt strangely over-sized, and the inch-and-a-half gap between the waistband and his skin - _after _he'd buttoned up - confirmed it.

. . . Bugger. He'd grabbed the wrong pair.

He reached down to pop the button again, but Flint's voice, lazy and post-coital relaxed, stopped him. "Don't worry 'bout it. I'll get 'em back later."

"You sure?" He plucked at the dark material that encased his thighs, wondering if it was worth the effort of trying to find his own. Thus far, they'd been stubbornly elusive, and he _did _fancy a bit of shut-eye before Transfiguration the next morning. It was tough enough puzzling out new spells when his brain was working at full capacity; sleep-deprived, he'd be a down-right hazard.

"For Merlin's sakes, Potter. 'S not-" he paused to yawn "-not like they're my only pair."

Well, then. That sealed it; when Flint started getting tetchy, it was best not to argue.

He snatched his shoes from the corner of the mattress - those, at least, he could differentiate from Flint's without modeling them first - and jammed his feet in. He tied the laces quickly, ending up with sloppy knots despite his best efforts.

"Hey. I'm a sock short here. If you find another one in the morning, it's mine."

"'K," Flint grunted. His ability to speak in full sentences was degenerating as the minutes wore on, reducing him to short, choppy replies.

Arching his back to peer over his shoulder at Harry, he asked, "S'ya t'morrow?" The question was punctuated by a jaw-popping yawn. Harry 'mmhmm'ed a confirmation, and Flint dropped his head again, nuzzling the pillow.

Harry perched on the edge of the bed for a beat or two, watching Flint's body relax into both sleep and the mattress. Then, with a yawn of his own, he wrapped himself in his Cloak and drew the curtain back enough to climb out.

Muted snores could still be heard from the neighboring bed, and someone shifted - hopefully in their sleep - as he crept over to the door and slipped into the corridor beyond. It was eerily quiet out there, the castle's atmosphere heavy with the hushed sounds of half a thousand people in varying states of slumber. He crossed the now-deserted common room and ascended the stairs in that same silence, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the stone enough to make him cringe.

Ron's snoring greeted him when he reached the dorm, and the unnerving quiet was finally broken. He stripped and crawled into bed, the cold sheets a shock against his skin until his body heat warmed them. Cocooning himself in the blankets, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	3. Attempting Discretion

**A/N: I realize I haven't updated this in nearly a year, but I figured you wonderful folks deserve something for being so patient! Most of this has been written for quite a while, and I finally filled in the bits that I'd left disjointed before; I apologize if you can tell where they are!**

**Also, a warning - the M rating is seriously warranted for this chapter, people! I think my writing has devolved to the point where I can't write anything un-sex related!**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Attempting Discretion**

Things progressed from there, becoming more comfortable with each encounter. Harry still had occasional moments of questioning his sanity in conducting clandestine hook-ups with a Slytherin, but for the most part Flint was keeping him far too entertained to worry about it.

Case in point:

"Where are we going?" Harry asked, glancing around at the myriad of food-themed paintings that lined the corridor. They'd been walking for a good ten minutes now, and he had no clue as to their destination.

"Kitchens. I'm bloody starving."

They followed the corridor a ways. After a few turns and a trip through a secret passage behind a tapestry decorated with galloping centaurs, Flint held up an arm to stop him. Harry stumbled to a halt and shot him an irritated look. A warning might've been nice.

Still scowling, he turned his attention to their surroundings - namely, the painting on the wall before them. A gigantic bowl of fruit was depicted there, jewel-bright paint forming the shapes of bananas and grapes and apples and pears. It was one of the last which Flint reached out to, and Harry watched, bewildered, as he tickled it. His expression grew even more confused as the pear _giggled_, of all things, and morphed into a door handle.

Flint grasped the handle and pulled. The painting swung outward to reveal the room beyond.

It was roughly the size of the Great Hall - which, if Harry's memory of the route they'd taken was accurate, also happened to be directly above - and just as crowded. Great huge stoves and counters and more cooking utensils than he'd seen in his life were ranged around the room. House elves swarmed like bees in a hive, going about their tasks with unparalleled enthusiasm. He scrunched up his nose. After cooking for the Dursleys (and, therefor, catering to Dudley's insatiable appetite), he couldn't imagine why anyone would _enjoy _doing so on such a massive scale. Seemed like a giant headache . . . then again, he wasn't a house elf. Maybe they had special cooking magic? He pondered this as he watched a tray of scones float by at eye-level.

Catching sight of Harry's expression, Flint rolled his eyes. There were still moments when Harry's Muggle upbringing shone through, and this was one of them. "Don't look so shocked, Potter. It's just a kitchen." When Harry shot him an incredulous look, he amended, "Okay, a really, really big kitchen. Still."

Before he could reply, a small, floppy-eared elf popped up. Its tea-towel toga bore the Hogwarts crest. "Would Sirs like anything to eat?" it asked, peering up at them with hopeful green eyes.

"Umm . . ." Harry began, glancing over at Flint. He, of course, was too busy eyeing a platter of passing muffins to register the elf's presence.

"Scones? Crumpets? Treacle tarts? Biscuits?" The elf snapped its fingers with each word, causing trays full of neatly stacked baked goods to materialize in mid-air.

"Erm . . . I'll have a treacle tart, I think." The elf looked ready to start listing available flavors, so he rushed out a quick, "Blueberry, please." He elbowed Flint in the side. "What d'you want?"

"What?" Flint turned to find Harry and the excited house elf (who was practically bouncing on the balls of its long, knobbly feet) watching him expectantly. "Oh, finally. Grab me some scones, would you?"

Five minutes later found the two of them out in the corridor again. Now, however, they were both loaded down with enough pastries to feed an army. (Or at least the Weasleys . . .) Flint had somehow managed to get ahold of the entire scone tray, and he was now eyeing them critically. He maneuvered one out from the bottom of the stack - what, was he _really _that picky? - and took a bite.

"Mmm. Cranberry," he announced, open-mouthed and spraying crumbs everywhere.

Harry just 'mmmed' in reply.

Glancing down at the half-eaten scone in his hand, Flint said, "Y'know, I didn't ask you down here for a trip to the kitchens. I only did that 'cause I was hungry."

"Oh yeah? What _did _you ask me here for, then?" Harry raised an eyebrow. He'd know all along Flint was working up to something else, but what?

"Well, at first I was hoping for a bit of _this_-" grinning wickedly, Flint shoved the last bite of scone into his mouth, shifted the tray to his left arm, and reached down to palm Harry's crotch "-but then I realized that, as fun as spontaneous sex in random places is, we might want somewhere of our own." He pressed down a bit more with the heel of his hand. "Did a bit of looking, and I think I found a likely spot."

Harry glanced down at the bulge forming beneath Flint's hand, feeling the blood pooling in his nether regions, and groaned. "Lead the way."

* * *

Four stairways, nine corridors, and two "shortcuts" (which in actuality probably lost them more time than they gained) later, they arrived at a nondescript wooden door. Wedged between a threadbare tapestry and a cobwebbed suit of armor, it was adorned with a heavy, old-fashioned handle whose tarnished silver only half-shone under the torchlight.

Flint swung the door open with a bit more flair than necessary. "Have a look, eh?"

Harry rolled his eyes at the theatrics but peered inside obediently.

It was a spacious room, although dusty and no doubt infested with something creepy, disgusting, and/or poisonous. Twenty or so desks - he didn't care enough to take an exact count - crammed the walls. They'd been moved recently, judging from long streaks where the thick layer of dust coating the floor had been disturbed.

He hiked an eyebrow, turning to Flint.

"Nice," he said, and it wasn't entirely sarcastic. Flint had done pretty well, considering some of the other spots he could've chosen. It was basilisk-free, nothing strange appeared to be growing on the walls, and the location was out-of-the-way. It was also a fair distance from the Slytherin Common Room, which meant he wouldn't be accosted in the corridors for "lurking" if he were spotted going to or fro.

Flint directed a self-satisfied smirk at him. "I thought so."

"Needs a bit of dusting. And some furniture, of course."

"Like a bed?" A lecherous grin stretched across Flint's face.

"Yeah, like a bed." He walked further into the room, ignoring the quiet click as Flint closed the door behind them. "Maybe a trunk or a table, too."

"Naturally. We need somewhere to store alcohol." Harry rolled his eyes at that, but Flint just shot him an innocent look. Well, he tried to, anyway. Innocence was tough to fake, and he just didn't have the face for it. Being cute and boyish might've helped, but Flint was eighteen and could no longer pull off cute and boyish (if he'd ever looked it in the first place, which Harry doubted).

Shoving all such thoughts to a deserted corner of his mind - his use of the words "Flint" and "cute" in the same sentence necessitated it - he perched on the edge of the nearest desk. "Worry about the alcohol later," he instructed, putting on his best suggestive face.

Flint advanced 'til he stood between Harry's parted thighs. Curving his hands around Harry's hips, he cocked an eyebrow and said, "I like the way you think, Potter."

Their mouths met, an action fast becoming familiar, and all thoughts of alcohol and interior decorating vanished like wisps of Patronus smoke.

* * *

December arrived amidst a flurry of activity. Between Quidditch practices, Christmas shopping, and stealthy hook-ups in what seemed like every nook and cranny of the castle, Harry was constantly on the go.

On the evening of the seventh, however, he made time for a celebration. Flint's nineteenth birthday had crept up with surprising swiftness, and after years' worth of unnoticed birthdays and other personal milestones (the Dursleys really had done a bang-up job of destroying his childhood), Harry wasn't about to let Flint's go unacknowledged.

He sent Hedwig off with a note - _Meet me in our room. Ten-thirty. Yours, H - _and sifted through his trunk for a decent outfit. Flint wouldn't care what he wore and Harry knew it, but all the same he had a strange compulsion to look nice. The trousers were easy enough: dark denim, moderately slouchy. The shirt, though, he agonized over for a good fifteen minutes. Blue? One of the red ones? But then, he'd always been told he looked fantastic in green . . . .

Finally, he cupped a hand over his eyes and grabbed at random.

He showered and dressed - red shirt, in accordance with the laws of probability - before wandering down to the classroom they'd appropriated for evening meet-ups.

His first action upon arriving was to conjure a mattress atop the chilly stone. Upon more critical thinking they'd decided against permanent furniture in the room - didn't want it to look too lived in if anybody stumbled across it - so conjuring was really their best bet. He'd required instruction from Flint before successfully performing the charm, but within a couple weeks he'd mastered it and was now putting it to good use. No way would he be bruising his knees on the floor; considering how generous Marcus's endowments were, he was counting on there being more than enough pain _already_for his tastes.

Bed successfully arranged, he added some fluffy blankets and pillows to maximize the comfort factor, then settled down to wait.

Flint strolled in ten nerve-wracking minutes later. He smiled upon catching sight of Harry and leaned down for a hey-you sort of kiss, surprisingly chaste, like it had been automatic.

"Where's my present, Potter? Don't tell me you're a cheapskate," he joked.

Harry offered up a half-nervous, half-amused smile in response. "It's right here," he said, glancing downward significantly.

Flint's eyes widened momentarily, a slight falter in his usual mask of cool indifference. "You mean-?"

"Yeah." Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair, accidentally making it even more unruly.

Flint shifted back into his personal space in response. "Thank you," he murmured, following the words up with a kiss. His palms stroked Harry's sides, then eventually settled at the small of his back, fingers curled through his belt loops. "I totally take back the cheapskate comment, for the record."

Harry huffed a laugh and then inhaled, drawing Flint's scent - smoke and unidentifiable, spicy cologne - into his lungs. He slid his hands beneath the hem of Flint's shirt - something soft and many-times-washed, if one were to judge by its faded quality - and inched it up over his belly, then his ribcage. He encountered a temporary roadblock once he reached armpit height, but Flint took pity on him and lifted his arms, leaning down and allowing the shorter boy to tug the fabric free.

Once his arms were free, Flint returned the favor. The red shirt was discarded without so much as a glance at it; apparently he hadn't needed to stress over his outfit so much.

Flint circled his arms full around Harry's hips and picked him up with no visible effort, eliciting a surprised grunt. His grin was sharkish as he guided Harry down to the waiting mattress, and it became positively predatory when Harry stretched out on his back and shimmied out of his pants and boxers, tossing them aside.

Flint launched himself after the other boy and straddled him without even pausing to tug his own jeans off.

Harry arched up against the solid warmth of Flint's strong thighs, against the stiff line of his cock straining against denim, and groaned at the sensation of being pinned down by so much hard muscle. "I think you're a bit overdressed," he remarked, prodding at Flint's trouser-clad thigh.

"Not for long, I'm not." Flint's hands dropped to his belt. He stripped, tossing his clothes with little concern for where they ended up, and then resumed his position on top of Harry.

Flint paused then, fully naked with his palms flat against the curve of Harry's spine. "Are you sure?" His voice was strained, as if asking a question because he should, not because he wanted to. The prospect of being rejected didn't sit well, that was plain enough, but the fact that he asked again at all truly decided the matter for Harry.

"Yeah." Harry swallowed back the apprehension lodged in his throat and nodded against the mattress. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He nudged at Flint's thigh with a clenched hand, and the Slytherin was quick to sit up and squirm onto the mattress beside him. Harry rolled onto his stomach and canted his hips up, then dragged a pillow into the circle of his arms, fingers clutching the downy object.

There was a moment of silence, hesitance, where it seemed as if both of them were locked in place. Then, Flint shifted restlessly and spoke again. "No, turn back over."

"What?" Harry faltered, thrown for a loop by the unanticipated request.

"I wanna see your face." Flint's confession was reluctant but genuine.

Large hands migrated down to curl around Harry's hips, urging him onto his side. He went along with it, shifting onto his back and splaying his legs.

Flint knelt between his thighs, rubbing circles along the smooth skin with his thumbs. Callused hands trailed over pale skin and soft hair, and Harry shivered at the light touch.

Flint leaned away briefly to grab his wand from the pocket of his jeans, then murmured a spell, wand tip aimed at his palm. He tossed it aside and crawled back between Harry's parted thighs, still in the act of warming the freshly-conjured lube by rubbing his fingers together.

He reached down and circled Harry's entrance with a careful, well-lubed finger before easing it in up to the first knuckle. Harry sucked in a breath like he'd been punched, but more from the eeriness of the sensation than any sort of discomfort.

Bolstered by the lack of negative response, Flint worked the finger in further. He turned and crooked it several times before adding a second digit.

Harry tilted his head back and moaned as Flint scissored his fingers and pressed deeper. He rocked himself down against the two steadily moving fingers, breath hitching at the burn and stretch. The pads of Flint's fingers brushed against something that sparked inside him, drawing an involuntary groan.

It served to encourage the older boy, who leaned down and mouthed at the patch of skin below his ear as he continued to twist and stretch and press, opening Harry up with slow movements and the patience (but certainly not motives) of a saint.

"More," Harry gritted out after a few minutes more.

Flint responded with a third finger and the sudden wet heat of a tongue swiping over his nipple. Harry just barely turned the high-pitched moan that wanted out into a hiss.

Finally, Flint removed his fingers with a wet squelch, stroked them over his cock a couple times, and de-lubed them on the blanket. He snatched up his wand and uttered a protective spell, his voice so full of gravelly want that it set Harry ashiver.

"Oh, Gods," Flint groaned as he grasped Harry's sides and rocked his own hips forward. The blunt head of his cock inched past the tight ring of muscle, and he forced himself to pause there, to let Harry adjust.

As soon as he got the go ahead, though, he was pressing forward, sliding until he was buried to the hilt. His movements started out slow and careful, ginger almost, but then increased in pace with each thrust until he was all but slamming home each time, drawing gasps and moans and grunted encouragement from Harry each time he hit the right spot deep inside.

It wasn't long at all before his hips lost their rhythm, jerking erratically; Harry followed suit a moment later, spurred on by Flint's climax.

He pulled out and collapsed in a sweaty heap beside Harry's sprawled form, who then squirmed around 'til he was face-first against Flint's chest, an arm draped possessively across the Slytherin's taut stomach.

"Merlin, you're attractive," Harry murmured, somewhat muffled; his face was currently mashed against the older boy's pec, making speech difficult.

"Wait - you think I'm attractive?" Flint arched an incredulous eyebrow. He grabbed hold of the blanket, grimacing as his hand touched a smear of lube on the fabric, and dragged it over top of them both. "Have you been drinking, or did the sex break your brain?"

"Is it really that hard to believe?" Harry shot him a vaguely affronted glare, but it looked more petulant than anything what with his hair an even bigger mess than usual and his eyes sleepy-lidded and almost catlike.

"Yes."

Harry sighed, warm breath puffing over Flint's skin. "Someday I'll make you believe it."

Flint hmmed in response. "We'll see."

* * *

After that, their encounters grew more frequent.

They had their classroom and used it frequently, in fact, but there was something to be said for sex in unusual places. One of the greenhouses, the Owlery (in the dead of night, of course), and several bathrooms were all christened in the first two weeks, and that wasn't even taking their dorms into account.

They favored Harry's room since his roommates were more likely to be procrastinating in the common room than doing anything, innocent or not, up in the dorm. Besides that, Flint's roommates were a bit whorish. Not surprising, considering they were all red-blooded males, not particularly ugly, and possessed rudimentary, if unrefined, social skills. "Performing" grew difficult when random moaning - sometimes masculine, sometimes not - could be heard from the next bed over, though.

It was for these reasons - well, and the fact that a real bed in a warm environment was infinitely more comfortable than a bathroom stall or their mattress in a cold, dusty classroom - that they found themselves on the four-poster in Harry's dorm.

Harry was lying on his back, hands fisted tightly in the bed sheets while Flint, stretched out on top of him, teased him mercilessly. Flint's mouth was hot and spit-slick against his hip bone, using heat and suction and just a hint of teeth to drive Harry completely, absolutely insane. All he wanted to do was grab Flint by the back of the neck and shove his head a couple inches further south, make him put that devious and talented mouth to good use.

Even as he gave in to his desires and lifted a hand to rest it on Flint's head, though, a sharp pounding - fist against ancient, heavy wood - rattled the door.

"Hey, mate, let me in! I need my chess set!"

He opened his mouth to yell something back (what, he hadn't decided yet) but all that came out was a rather embarrassing moan.

"Harry! C'mon!"

Suppressing another moan and hoping to Merlin something equally mortifying - a declaration of love, maybe - wouldn't come spilling out, he yelled, "Just a minute!"

The redhead huffed impatiently, but Harry's attention was already being diverted back to the matter at hand - the spit-slick swirl of Flint's tongue along the "v" of his lowered zipper. He groaned, reaching down with the hand that wasn't fisted in the sheets to grab hold of Flint's hair.

Ron pounded on the door again. "I'm serious, mate! Open up or I'm coming in!" There was a pause, and then, "You'd better be decent. Alohamora!"

The lock clicked open, and with a muted but heartfelt, "Fuck!" Flint threw himself off the mattress and rolled under the bed.

Just in time, too; Ron came tromping in and froze at the sight of an even-more-disheveled-than-usual Harry sprawled out on his bed, shirtless, trousers unbuttoned.

"Merlin, Harry. Warn a bloke next time, huh?" Ron exclaimed, shaking his head. He fetched the box housing his Wizard's Chess set from the floor, collected the errant chess pieces on his nightstand - "Oh, I say! How rude!" one of the knights yelped as he was swept into the box - and trooped out of the room again with a quick wave.

The door swung shut behind him and locked with a click.

Harry and Flint both lay still for a moment, frozen in place as they strained to hear Ron's retreating footsteps. Finally, once Ron's departure had faded into silence, Flint peered out from under the bed.

"All clear?" he confirmed, glancing around as if to make sure none of Harry's other roommates were lurking in the corners.

"Yeah, we're good," Harry sighed. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Mmm. You can make it up to me," Flint said, leering at him. "I've got somethin' in mind." He squirmed out into open space, then paused a moment to dust himself off. This dusting, oddly enough, included pressing a palm against the pronounced bulge in his trousers. After a moment, he re-situated himself on top of Harry's spread thighs and leaned in for a kiss.

Harry tried to follow him up when he pulled away, but Flint hopped to his feet without allowing it.

"Later, Potter," he said, and was out the window, hunched low over his Nimbus 2000 and battling the window on his way groundward, before Harry could drag him back and make him reconsider leaving.

* * *

Later that night, sprawled out on the mattress-bed with pillows and blankets and each others' sticky-sweaty-spent bodies, Flint pitched his oh-so-brilliant Idea. (Yes, with a capital 'I'.)

"We should do it in the shower."

Harry squirmed out from under the forearm draped across his stomach, elbowing Flint in the ribs in his hurry to sit up. "What? No. Uh uh. No bloody way."

Flint blinked, taken aback by the vehemence with which he spoke. "So, that's a 'yes', right?"

"No, it's a 'no'. As in 'no bloody way, you barmy lunatic'. Have you gone completely 'round the bend?"

Flint shifted position, a serpentine contortion taking place as his torso twisted sideways, but his hips remained flush against the mattress. He propped himself up on one elbow, threading his fingers through sweaty, sex-tousled hair, and when he met Harry's eyes, his gaze was steady. Aggressive, even, in its intensity. "Come on, Potter. You're not scared, are you? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to have balls."

"Fuck you," Harry said, but the anger in his voice was mostly feigned. A single, unimaginative jab at his Gryffindor pride wasn't enough to ignite his temper. Not coming from Flint, anyway, whose poking and prodding of his House affiliations had been thorough and no longer phased him.

"Well, you could, I guess," Flint drawled. "Right now, though, I'm more interested in buggering you up against a wall. Soaking wet. With the spray pounding down on our shoulders." It was a tempting image, Harry had to admit, and obviously one Flint had been fantasizing over for quite some time. Still . . . no.

Flint shifted his weight onto the hip furthest from Harry and planted his other foot on the mattress, spreading his thighs suggestively. Further incentive, as it were. Harry's eyes were drawn to the spectacle. He licked his lips, a purely subconscious gesture, before replying, "As wonderful as that sounds, my answer's still no."

"Remember when your redheaded friend - Rod or something, wasn't it? - barged in on us? And I said you could make it up to me?" Flint slid a hand under Harry's chin and steered his gaze upward, forcing the younger boy to meet his eyes. "This is what I want."

"Convincing argument," Harry murmured, leaning closer. Their breath mingled, mouths scarcely an inch apart, as he rested his forehead against Flint's. He retreated after a moment, though, and added, eyes dancing, "But you'll have to do better than that."

"Tease." Flint's tone was fond, if a bit accusatory.

"Nah," Harry said. "_This _is being a tease." He darted in and grazed his teeth over Flint's kiss-swollen lower lip. His tongue soon followed, soothing the aggravated flesh.

Flint growled at him playfully. It reverberated low in his throat, like a rumble of thunder. "At least _consider _it," he said, refusing to be distracted.

"No."

"But-" Flint protested. Or tried to, anyway. Harry cut him off almost before the first word left his mouth.

"_No._ And if you keep harping on about it, you won't be getting _anything_, let alone in the shower!"

Flint snapped his mouth shut at that, and though his expression was far from pleasant, he didn't dare continue. Y'know, just in case Harry wasn't bluffing. He _did _have a sex drive, after all, and he wasn't about to put it in a position of not being attended to.

* * *

When Flint set his mind to something, he usually got it.

This was achieved through a variety of methods, most of them devious in ways only a Slytherin could (or would) consider. Sometimes he would ask, sometimes he would demand, sometimes he'd even beg. The last happened rarely, though. Flint was brash and proud, not the submissive type, and never, ever, not-in-a-thousand-years would he venture so far from his comfort zone.

When asking or demanding failed, he resorted to Plan C. (Begging was Plan D, only to be used after all other options were exhausted.) Plan C often consisted of strategically placed hints (in blatant fashion, since Harry was a bit unobservant and tended to miss anything subtle).

One such hint now lay on Harry's bed, having been unearthed from its hiding place inside his pillowcase. Flint had chosen the perfect spot - out of sight, but still somewhere Harry couldn't possibly miss it. When he'd settled down to sleep, he'd noticed it right away. He'd removed the offending object and fumbled his wand off his nightstand to cast a quick _Lumos_. Then he'd laid there for the next ten minutes, staring, mesmerized, at the "hint".

It was a picture.

More specifically, it was a picture of the Slytherin boys' communal shower room.

Dark green curtains had been arranged around the shower heads that dotted the walls, forming separate stalls. The floor sloped, angling down towards the drain in the center of the room. One curtain, the nearest one, had been graffitied extensively. It depicted a large figure pinning a smaller one to the wall, big hands boxing in narrow hips. It was obvious who was meant to be who. The smaller figure bore a scribble of dark ink to signify unruly hair, and a lightning bolt had been sketched on its forehead.

The level of detail was remarkable. Flint had pulled out all the stops, even going so far as to animate the drawing. The two ink figures rocked together, moving in a jerky rhythm that left no doubt as to their activities.

Despite himself, Harry was impressed with Flint's drawing skills. Everything was in proportion, and all the body parts _looked _like body parts. What Flint lacked in intellect, he seemed to make up for in artistic talent.

Flint could be as artistic as he wanted, he supposed, so long as he'd gotten rid of that damned drawing once he'd taken the picture.

This wasn't the first shower-related "hint" he'd received. A couple days after Harry's nixing of the shower-sex idea, he'd come back from dinner to find a neatly folded bath towel waiting at the foot of his bed. Two days later, there'd been a Quidditch Quarterly clipping tucked into his Transfiguration book - the new Puddlemere United shower facilities, according to the text underneath. Unfortunately, there hadn't been any Quidditch players in sight, let alone any naked ones.

Now, two days after the last attempt, Flint had stuffed a picture in his pillowcase. How the hell was he doing it? Flying up and climbing through the window during class hours?

Each attempt had been more graphic than its predecessor, proof enough that Flint was growing impatient. Or getting desperate - there wasn't a whole lot of difference, not when it came to him.

Well, there was nothing to do but sleep on it. (The idea, not the picture. That would be a bit uncomfortable.) After stashing the picture in the DADA book on his nightstand and extinguishing his wand, Harry squirmed back under the covers and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.

* * *

The next morning, Flint caught him halfway between Charms and Potions. Tugging him into an empty alcove so they wouldn't be seen together - Merlin forbid anyone discover they were on speaking terms, let alone screwing on a regular basis - Flint looked at him, expression blank as stone. His eyes, on the other hand, sparked with eagerness. "So?"

"So what?"

"You _know _what."

"Not really, no."

Flint shot him an irritated look. "Don't bullshit me, Potter. Did you even consider it?"

"Of course I did," Harry said, and it wasn't a lie. He tilted his head back to meet Flint's eyes. "It's too risky."

"In what way, exactly?"

"Oh, I dunno," Harry snapped. "Maybe someone fancies a wash and walks in on us buggering? Or you slip and break your neck? Hell, maybe _I _slip and break _my _neck?"

Flint groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. He took a deep breath to rein his temper in before speaking. "Those thrice-damned Muggles ruined you, Potter. See, there's this little thing called 'magic', which you obviously aren't taking into account. Ever heard of Silencing Charms? How about No-Slip Spells?"

Harry raised his chin stubbornly. "How are those gonna help if someone walks in, though? I don't suppose my Cloak is waterproof."

"Curtains. There are _curtains_, Potter. Nobody will see. Nobody will hear. Nobody will be any the wiser. When we're done, you toss that nifty Cloak of yours on and follow me out the door. Simple as that."

Harry blinked in bewilderment, mostly because Flint had just used the word 'nifty', but also partly because, when phrased like that, Flint's idea didn't sound like total lunacy. It had the potential to turn into a huge, horrendous, traumatizing disaster, but there was also a slim possibility that it might work. (And, y'know, not horribly humiliate any involved parties.)

Flint took his silence as permission to gloat. "Doesn't sound so barmy now, does it? If you'd just let me explain when I asked the first time, we wouldn't have wasted all this-"

Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He liked Flint, he really did, but sometimes he had a tough time recalling why.

"-could've been fucking in the shower instead of bickering like an old married couple!" Flint shut his mouth with a snap. "Oh, gods. 'Old married couple'?" He shuddered, then asked, "So. Is that a yes?"

Silence. If he opened his mouth, Harry had a distinct feeling he would regret it.

"Please?" Flint put his best kicked-puppy face to use - if you could call his squinty-eyed, slightly crooked pout an expression a puppy would make, that is. Maybe a pitbull puppy, or a rottweiler. Something mean-looking with big teeth.

It was rather pathetic, but Harry caved nonetheless. Heaving a sigh, he said, "Fine."

Flint's struggle to look impassive was obvious even to Harry, and after a beat of strained silence, he gave up. "Yes! _Finally!_I thought you'd never give in!" Flint leaned in to kiss him, swift and hard with plenty of tongue. Pulling back after a moment, he said, "Go on, then, or Snape'll skin you alive. I'll see you tonight. Our spot at eleven?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, sure." Then he was off, sprinting so he wouldn't be late for Potions. Professor Snape despised tardiness, and he despised Harry even more-so. Combining the two might just cause him to snap.

He never looked back, and therefore missed Flint's brief victory dance - more of a quick jig, really - before he sauntered off in the opposite direction.


End file.
